Remember a couple of weeks ago when I was going to buy the ibook? And everyone kept telling me, no no, it has a G3, you want a G4. The G4 will last you longer, it's faster, blah blah.

Apple has just come out with the G4 ibook. And it can come with the AirPort Extreme.

I'm so glad I didn't buy that. I would've been kicking myself today.

And nuts to y'all who thought I'd just pop it on a credit card. Not only did I not do that, but my wise, adult decision has been rewarded by the release of the ibook G4.

And the price is now $1,598.00. 14", 933 Mhz, 640 RAM, 60 gig hard drive, combo cd-drive, AirPort Extreme. It's a $200 difference between the 12" and the 14", but with that $200 I also get an extra 133 mhz on the.... whatever. The speed. For another $200, I can get the 14" with a 1 Ghz processor (is that the right term?) but my computer friends say it's not worth it, not for another 77 mhz. The difference is negligible.

Of course, they're saying that the screen is crap compared to the Powerbook - which is true, I did go to the store and see the difference. But for my own purposes, a slicker screen that's going to cost me close to $1,000 more when I load up all that I want on it - is not worth it. I'm not a graphics person, I'm not going to be watching stuff on the laptop, for the most part. Microsoft Word doesn't care about the screen it's a plain old white block, hopefully filled with words.

It's the "South Park is gay" episode, and it's hilarious. People keep talking about that show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and I so don't see the appeal. I think it's just as stupid as the rest of the reality show crap. I don't watch it because - I'm not interested. I'm tired of people telling me that I'm going to like it.

This show was just what I needed to confirm it's probably a fad.

Five minutes later

Oh my god. For the past couple of days, this guy on IRC has been saying "crab people. crab people. crab people." This is what he was referring to. I shall no longer yell at him.

I swear, Big is Carrie's Soulmate. I know Susanna hates him, what he's always done to her - but that episode The Domino Effect showed a very realistic part of the soulmate idea. At least in reality.

That maybe there can be a soulmate out there (not that there is, or that there has to be), but the timing just never works. And Carrie was strong enough to accept that, and move on. She said that she did love him, and that he probably loved her, but she wasn't going to wait around for five years for him to open back up.

It's a tough decision for the last set of episodes, this being the last season. Have them finally be together in a storybook ending? Or keep the character independent.

Rachel Boim, 14, who lived in the Denver area at the time of the Columbine High School shootings in Littleton, Colorado, that left 15 dead, was expelled Wednesday from Roswell High School in this Atlanta suburb under the Fulton County School District's "zero tolerance" policy.

Rachel said Friday her story was not intended as a threat -- it was strictly a work of fiction -- and her father, David Boim, said he would challenge the decision as a violation of "the right to think and feel."

He said he understands the concerns of school administrators about even the most remote possible threats to teachers and other students, but "we also expected common sense to kick in at some point."
......
Rachel wrote the story in her personal journal and was showing it to a classmate. Her art teacher noticed, confiscated it and turned it over to school officials the next day.

"It was a story about a girl who falls asleep in class, dreams she kills her match [math?] teacher, then wakes up and nothing happens," she said.

And someone in IRC starts going on about how people shouldn't write things down that can come back and bite you in the ass.

I'm angry enough as it is over the apparent trend America's policies are taking towards fascism.

The girl was writing something down in her journal. Trying to work out what she experienced living near Columbine. Or maybe she was just writing a damn horror story.

There's a niggling part in the back of my mind that says, hey, maybe the kids from Columbine or the other shootings wrote similar stories. And if those had been found earlier...

But, no. It was a story the girl wrote down in her personal journal. She wasn't offering it up as evidence of a screwed up mind, she was writing about something she'd experienced.

I can empathize with her, because I have my own journals. You think I post here a lot? In the three and a half years that I've been journalling, I've gone through 5 of those little bound journals you can get in the bookstore. Written double-sided, pretty small handwriting. Pages completely filled. All my own thoughts of working things out, complaining about my day, worrying about the little things. The kind of journalling that irks me in others' livejournals (but none of the ones I link to or read; I'm thinking more of the stereotype of blogging. I don't know if I even know of a real person who does that). The kind of stuff you keep to yourself.

In there, I can report stories and anecdotes over and over. I can repeat little mantras, keep reiterating the same points because my "listener" is just me and the paper. I can detail an encounter verbatim, keep examining the same point - articulate the things I think and wonder about without annoying anyone else. And believe me, I think of a lot of really random stuff.

It's the place to act selfish, to act whiny, and if I feel like it, analyze every angle of an emotion in order to work it out. That's something I can't really do with my friends on a regular basis. They'll forgive me for the occasional obsession, but having a friend who does that all the time is rather tiresome. I know, I've been that friend as well as had those friends.

Everyday at work, during my smoke breaks and sometimes during lunch, I sit in the smoke room, have 2 or three cigarettes, and write. Of course there's days where I chat, or when I read, but for the most part, I write in my journal. The older ladies think it's quaint or something, and tend to comment or tell me a story. One sweet lady, who always calls me "dear," told me about her granddaughter who started writing poetry in a journal when her mother died. That might sound kind of morose, but the way she described the comfort the girl found in words was really rather sweet. Plus, I have total respect for anyone who can compose poems; I can't even understand the stuff, much less attempt to write it. Just contemplating writing a poem makes me the giggle.

But back to my point.

What kills me about this story, is that a young girl is basically being discouraged from exploring her feelings, her thoughts, all those corridors of her mind in a constructive, intelligent way.

I know that if I don't get these things out on paper, I'd go nuts holding it all in. I think back in high school and college, and wonder if I'd have been less anxious and paranoid if I'd written my worries out instead of trying to pretend they didn't exist.

But this young girl discovers this wonderful tool at 14 and she's been expelled. What percentage of teenagers right now would even come up with writing as an outlet? And she's being penalized?

I've always kind of thought the censorship found in Farenheit 451, 1984, Equilibrium and even Battle Royale as rather extreme cases, and very very difficult to come by. But this little step, of wanting someone to curb their feelings, curb their thoughts, not express them in any way, shape or form...

We (Nowhere Without Hope) got declared on by a kingdom slightly bigger than us, slightly more pumped, and more honorable. But we're prepared, because we were going to declare at 5:00-ish today anyways. So we're turning around, getting into war, and planning to peasant kill a prov or two to show them the error of their ways.

I'm so excited.

This also solves the problem of the going-out debate. I must be at home from the 18th-19th hour on Utopia (6:49-7:01 p.m., my time) for a pk.

There's stuff to do, I suppose, but it's Friday afternoon and I don't feel like doing any of it. Plus, I'm so distracted/irked by this boy situation that I let myself get mired in, that I don't even want to do anything but smack him upside the head for letting a catch like me go.

Because psychotically obsessing about something for hours on end is so attractive.

So what do I do? I sit here and post more inanity. I contemplate going to Luck of the Draw at Mickey's this evening, even though I told myself I wasn't going out tonight because Susanna's birthday party is tomorrow night. One night out on the weekends is enough for me - fun- and monetary-wise.

Sterno pants gets way too many comments on his site. I see 20 a day. It makes me jealous.

But then, andamaroo said that if I had a livejournal, he'd see every post I made and then could comment more.

And I realized, my page isn't really a livejournal. It's not here for people to get updated about my day, to know what music I'm listening to, to know my "current mood." Or what I ate for breakfast.

For me, this page is to practice articulating my thoughts. To learn how to put into writing those whacked-out ideas and commentary I have about what I'm reading, about what I'm watching. To describe the strange segueways my mind takes. I honestly don't give a shit what song someone is currently listening to - but if they have a cool connection they've made because of the song and some happenstance in their life - by all means, write about it!

Sometimes, I do post only lyrics, but that's because the lyrics have some meaning to me. Other times, I do post about my mood - but that's usually because I have something to say about it. Something to rant about, something I just have to get out.

But mainly - mainly, I talk about the random stuff that rattles around in my brain. And the lack of commentary is because there really isn't anything to say about what I say. There really shouldn't be, I'm not saying it to have people comment. I'm saying it because I want to. If someone cares to respond, great - it goes to show I do have a reader or two out there.

Apparently, GomiBushi has decided to quit his livejournal. And neckro has a new one, but he hasn't posted much.

I guess doing this stuff, you have to find your own niche, find what it is you want to write about. And when. And how.

Me, I think I've kind of settled into my own pattern. I bounce around and sometimes have personal posts (see below), but for the most part, I use this page to talk about random anime, book thoughts. Computer thoughts. There's a number of posts I've started on paper and never gotten around to finishing, or typing up. I'm still working on that.

On IRC, we have one detractor of Live Journals and Blogs, who loves to tell us, "Who gives a shit what you do with your day?"

I tend to answer, "Well, no one." Which is why I don't particularly post about my day. I guess I used to, but then I noticed I'd skim over others' posts who do talk about their day. (Now, I don't even go to those sites.)

I like peoples' pages with ideas and comments. Or good writers. Or people I just find interesting. Those who read my page tend to know what they're getting into - it's probably not something of particular interest to you, and if it isn't, you don't read it. (Hi, Jen!) Or, you do, to kill time in your work day. (Hi, sterno pants!)

In the esteemed words of Egg-shen, a quote that I use to apply to my own religious/spiritual beliefs, and can be applied to just about anything. "It's like your salad bar. You take what you want, and leave the rest!"

Turns out Richard Matheson has written a shitload of old horror things for tv and screen. And they're still adapting his books - one of the most recent being Stir of Echoes.

However, books are only one thing currently on my mind. The other is boys. Not men, but boys. Those male figures who can't seem to grow up and fucking say what it is they want. Here's a tip, gentlemen: Communication is a good thing.

Basically, I'm tired of guys who are apparently only in it for the chase. I wouldn't pay any attention to this guy, in fact tried my best to get rid of him - and when I finally yielded and thought to myself, "Hey, he might be okay," what happens? Dead silence from that end.

I guess maybe I'm in double-standard mode, though, because I will admit past times where I've done the same thing. If someone returns the interest to me (don't scoff, it does happen every once in a while), I'll back off myself. I'm a hypocrite, we all are, I suppose.

I like to think of myself as someone who doesn't play these games, who is straight-forward with what I want - and what I don't want. But drop me into one of these situations, and I can apparently be just as prickly as the next girl or boy. (I refuse to use the "men" and "women" nomenclature, because in matters of "interest" and all, nearly everyone acts like a fucking middle-schooler. Find me one who doesn't, I dare you. I double dog dare you!)

Upshot: how the hell does a relationship even start? How do you all get over this little dance to something that's actually meaningful, a real relationship? It's been so long since I've had one, I can't even remember. And since none of those started in a particularly healthy manner, I doubt they're a good model for me to follow.

Is it a matter of timing? Sex and the City has a lot of theories, one of which is that it's a matter of meeting someone when their light is "on" - like a taxi.

But then, of course, there's so many other factors and opinions. The oft-said: "You can't look for a relationship, it'll find you when you least expect it." That actually looking for one is probably the one thing that will surely sabotage the effort.

Then there's the individual. "You have to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with anyone else." And, honestly, who would want to be with someone who is miserable?

All of these factors, all of the variables, all the potential for things to blow up over a misunderstanding. Is it any wonder that I prefer my books, my three friends, and my cat?

I suppose I've always used reading as a form of escapism. While I didn't have a horrible childhood, it certainly wasn't filled with friends. Hell, the same is true today, but at this point I really prefer being alone.

Yesterday I spent the entire day reading. Hardly surprising, since I got a slew of new reading material. Read Trickster's Choice (400 pages, but a young adult book, so a rather quick read); the first part of I Am Legend, the actual vampire story, and a couple of the short stories following that. Say, just under 200 pages, but a more condensed prose than the fantasy book. Nice, slick horror.

I haven't confirmed this yet on imdb, but I think the story "Prey" was one of the installments in Trilogy of Terror, a horor movie with Karen Black I made my mom rent when I was younger. I practically don't even need to check it out, I'm 99% sure that part was based on the short story I read last night - even though I probably saw the movie 15 or so years ago. The little hunter doll coming to life, the conflict with the mother, the main character having to call off her date. It's the story, I'm sure of it. I just didn't realize that Richard Matheson wrote it, nor that the story was so old. I guess I find myself liking a lot of 1950s stuff lately.

I picked Battle Royale back up this morning, forced my way through the opening pages. And I love it, just as much as the movie. The movie did take some liberties, but I'd read somewhere about a few of the differences - that there was no student who "signed up" for the game, he was a real student from the class. The survivor character from the movie didn't just show up on the island, he was actually transferred into the class a month before the game.

I'm having a few problems with the names, which I kind of knew would happen. Luckily, there's a handy-dandy class list in the front of the book, and I'm going to write in some notes. I'm kind of just recognizing a few of the characters' names right now, instead of taking copious notes on each one. A bunch die in the beginning, and there's no use for me to memorize the exact letters of a name, when that character's going to be dead in just a few more pages.

I have so many new books, I hardly know what to do with myself. In a good way.

It's been a while since I've spent a significant amount of money on a number of books at once. I usually just go to a bookstore, buy one randomly, or pester my pirate friends for text files and ebooks.

And I rarely order books online because of the s&h. But after last week's paycheck, I went a little nuts on amazon.com; and last night, my package arrived with thousands of pages to entertain me.

I kind of want to start with Battle Royale, but after the first couple of pages, it seems a little heavy. Usually 500+ pages doesn't faze me, but I also have Trickster's Choice (Tamora Pierce, the first in a new Tortall series; probably the only fantasy I can still stomach), I Am Legend (Richard Matheson, suggested by an ex), A Prayer for Owen Meaney (John Irving, recommended to me by some random girl on the metro), and E Pluribus Unicorn (Theodore Sturgeon, a Sarah Daisy recommendation). Ok, E Pluribus Unicorn arrived two days ago because I purchased it through amazon.com's used section.

I'm so excited to have finally gotten my hands on a bunch of books that have been on my "to read" spreadsheet for months.

DuvetAnd you don't seem to understand
A shame you seemed an honest man
And all the fears you hold so dear
Will turn to whisper in your ear
And you know what they say might hurt you
And you know that it means so much
And you don't even feel a thing

I am falling, I am fading
I have lost it all

And you don't seem the lying kind
A shame then I can read your mind
And all the things that I read there
Candle lit smile that we both share
and you know I don't mean to hurt you
But you know that it means so much
And you don't even feel a thing

I am falling, I am fading, I am drowning
Help me to breathe
I am hurting, I have lost it all
I am losing
Help me to breathe

I am falling, I am fading, I am drowning
Help me to breathe
I am hurting, I have lost it all
I am losing
Help me to breathe

I finished Season of Mists last night, then read issues 29-31 - three historical issues more about humans than the Endless. I also read the Sandman Special 1: Orpheus.

A Game of You has some of the periphery characters mentioned throughout the series so far. Donna - of Judy's Donna, the Judy character from issue #6, my first favorite, bloody issue of the Preludes and Nocturnes set - is one of Barbie's neighbors. Barbie is a peripheral character from A Doll's House, one of Rose Walker the dream vortex's neighbors in that series. Two years ago, something happened - her dreams broke and she hasn't dreamt since.

Thus leaving the Land in danger to the Cuckoo.

Once I really realized who this Barbie character was, I went back and reread the last two issues of A Doll's House. And, yup, the penultimate story depicted Barabara's dreams of the Land and Martin Tenbones. I remember thinking that was totally nuts, and completely glossed over it. The last issue did say that Barbie moved to Manhattan; and in the first of A Game of You, Barbie mentions her old landlord Hal.

And I'm only a third of the way through this stuff. Neil Gaiman is fast becoming one of my favorite authors.